


You're my girl.

by esselem



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Bucky Barnes, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Mild Language, One Shot, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esselem/pseuds/esselem
Summary: You wake up in a bed that isn't yours, and Bucky likes to tease.





	You're my girl.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted work, and I had No Plan when I was writing it, but thanks for clicking on it anyway! Hope it entertains you for a few minutes, let me know what you think.

Your first realisation when you wake up is that this is a really comfy bed.

Your second realisation is that this is not _your_ bed.

Your third realisation is that you’re not alone in this bed.

Blinking your eyes open slowly, you vaguely recognise the bedroom you’re sleeping in, in the sense that it seems kind of _familiar_, but not quite _right_. You know it’s definitely not _your_ bedroom; your walls are covered in soft grey wallpaper, and decorated with various photographs and artwork, whereas these walls appear to be painted a warm blue, and are lacking any personal touches from your limited perspective. But the view from the windows is the same view that you’re used to, just from a different angle.

Okay, so you’ve established that you’re still at the compound – reassuring, but that only solves part of the mystery.

It takes you a few more minutes before you’re able to muster up the energy to sit up – seriously, this bed is _really_ fucking comfy, what the fuck? Your bed is pretty damn comfy in itself but something about this one is just going to ruin all beds for you, which is a real shame to be honest, because you _love_ sleeping – and try to work out whose bed you’re crashing in and _why_, exactly, you’re in theirs and not yours.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you think about it), you’re wearing clothes. Not the clothes you were wearing last night – or at least, you don’t think they are. Your brain hasn’t fully woken up yet so, you know; baby steps. On that note, what _are_ you wearing? It’s clearly a t-shirt (soft and big and warm and you never want to take it off), but definitely not yours. It’s big enough that one side of the collar has slipped over your shoulder, and combined with the dizzyingly masculine scent surrounding you, it probably belongs to one of the guys.

Which brings you to your bed partner.

Turning your head, you don’t even realise you’re holding your breath until it rushes out again in a _whoosh_ once your eyes fall upon the man asleep next to you.

Ah.

Okay, you know it’s a bit of a cliché to say it, but Bucky Barnes really does look incredibly innocent while he’s asleep. His face is relaxed in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen on him; usually he is just scowling (though you have a feeling that is more often a case of his, as you have fondly titled it, ‘resting murder face’, than of him specifically glaring at someone), though sometimes he does produce that small, crooked smile of his, which has a tendency to make you stumble over your words whenever it’s aimed at you. Now, however, he actually looks peaceful. This is a little bit surprising, if you’re being honest, since it’s no secret around the compound that Bucky doesn’t sleep very well. It’s not uncommon to get up in the middle of the night or early morning and find Bucky sitting in the kitchen or the lounge area (on many such occasions, making you jump out of your fucking skin once you realise he’s there, which usually coaxes one of those fucking smiles onto his face).

Your fourth notable realisation of the morning crashes into you like a sledgehammer applied directly to your head, which is that your head _fucking hurts_ and you can’t contain the pained groan that crawls out of your throat with this unwelcome discovery.

“Oh, _fuck me_,” you mumble pitifully, dropping your head into your hands. Nice of your brain to delay the hangover for a few seconds but holy _hell_, how much did you drink last night?

“Maybe later,” a deliciously low voice mutters from your left.

Oh, look, Bucky’s awake. At least the pain rattling around your skull is distracting you from inevitably freaking out about why you’re in his bed – because, apparently wild night aside, you still haven’t figured that one out.

“What the _fuck_?” Your question ends with a pathetic whine, and you’re not sure if you’re asking Bucky or the universe for the answer.

“It’s not even six yet, why’re you awake?” Bucky sighs, his voice gravelly with sleep. And, that’s not something you’ve ever heard before, and that’s definitely not something you’re going to forget any time soon, even with this raging headache. The man has an outrageously attractive voice, okay?

“Not through choice, fuck off.” Your voice is muffled by your hands still pressed against your face, but you assume he still understands, because there’s a throaty chuckle – dear _god_ – before you feel the bed shift and his warm presence disappears. You’re not sure for how long because you still can’t bring yourself to lift your head, but eventually the bed dips again, and there’s a soft tap against the back of your hand.

“Come out, come out,” Bucky coos, and you don’t even need to look to know that he’s got one of those goddamn smiles on his face again. “I come bearin’ gifts.”

Peeking through your fingers, you see the glass of water first, held in his metal hand, and then the two white tablets resting on the palm of the other. You don’t even ask what they are; you just sigh and take them, swallowing them down with the water. Holding the glass in your lap, your free hand comes up to press against your forehead, eyes closing in hope of some relief.

“You okay?” Metal fingers pluck the glass out of your hand and he leans behind you to, presumably, place it on the bedside table on your side.

“Mm.” A noncommittal answer, but all that you can manage at this point. Suddenly there are two hands pressing gently on your shoulders, and the cool metal against the bare, heated skin of your exposed one feels heavenly. A gentle push has you leaning back down, and you sigh again, happily this time, once your head is on the pillow.

“Back to bed, you,” Bucky murmurs, his voice tinged with fond amusement. You don’t make any attempt in resisting the allure of sleep once more, and the last thing you feel before drifting off again are warm fingertips brushing your hair away from your face.

* * *

The next time you wake up, your head is still throbbing with dull pain, but it isn’t nearly as bad as it was when it first hit you earlier. However long ago that was. You’re still in Bucky’s bed, but alone this time, and the room is much lighter now – so, probably at least a couple of hours.

It’s easier to sit up this time, and you even manage to swing your legs over the side of the bed. As much as you would love to stay in Bucky’s bed – seriously, why the _fuck_ are you in his bed to begin with? – you probably should get up. Plus, your mouth feels gross and you need to get through your morning routine.

Rubbing the sleep away from your eyes, you blink blearily until your sight focuses again, before leaving the warmth of the bed and standing up. Glancing around the room, you don’t see anything that belongs to you lying around, not even your phone, so with a resigned sigh you shuffle out of the room quietly and into the hallway. Thankfully, you don’t run into anybody on the way to your own bedroom, and so ten uneventful minutes later, feeling more refreshed and dressed in your own clothes, you find yourself in the kitchen.

The kitchen, it seems, is occupied.

“Well, good _morning_, Coyote Ugly,” Tony greets you cheerfully, an entertained grin playing on his face, which prompts your slow steps to falter. “Sleep well?”

“That’s… not a reassuring greeting,” you reply hesitantly, flicking your eyes towards Bucky – or, rather, his back (it’s a nice back), while he focuses on making a cup of coffee, before returning your gaze to Tony.

Tony snickers, and folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter. “Oh, does she not remember her spectacular performance last night?”

Sighing, you rub your temples lightly, closing your eyes in some frustration. “Tony, my head hurts, so can you not—?”

“Oh, come on, Tony, stop teasing her,” Steve’s stern voice cuts in before Tony can reply, the man himself sitting over in the lounge, watching some nature documentary on the television with the volume turned low.

“Maybe I should be teasing you instead, Cap? How _was_ that lap dance, by the way, Romanoff seemed pretty skilled…?” Tony’s voice doesn’t really get any quieter, but you’re able to tune it out when it’s no longer directed at you, as he waltzes over towards Steve, who shakes his head in exasperation.

“You know what, Stark—“

Their bickering fades into the background as Bucky walks towards you, taking the space that Tony had just vacated and leaning against the counter in a similar manner.

“Here,” Bucky holds out the mug of coffee in his left hand, handle pointed towards you. “Drink up.”

Accepting the drink gratefully, you hop up onto the bar stool to his right, twisting around so you’re angled towards him. “Thanks.”

He bumps his hip gently against your knee, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “So, uh, how _did_ you sleep?”

“Um.” You tap your finger against the mug, placing it down on the counter, before glancing back up at him. “Yeah, I mean, I—I slept pretty well, I think. But, uh…” Your free hand drums lightly against your knee. “Okay, um, not that I’m complaining, because your bed is honestly ridiculously comfortable, but why _was_ I in your bed?”

“Well, the short answer is that you’re clingy when you’re drunk.” He has that crooked grin again, and you feel your face heat up in embarrassment.

“I—oh god, uh—okay, first of all, I’m so sorry,” you manage to get out, after doing your best gaping fish impersonation for a few seconds. “But, second, I think I might need the long answer.”

Bucky chuckles quietly, and rests his arm against the counter, his fingers joining yours in tapping gently against the mug, angling his body more in your direction. “Well, first of all, don’t worry ‘bout it—if anythin’, it was very cute.” _God_, is he doing this on purpose? Your fingers tighten on your knee. “As for the longer explanation, well, you remember what we were doin’ last night?”

For a brief second your mind wanders in a very self-indulgent direction, before you remind yourself that he means a general ‘we’ and not a specific ‘we’. And you do remember – some of the memories of last night had shaken loose of the alcohol-induced haze that previously obscured them, coming to you in flashes while you were getting dressed and brushing your teeth. You signal your confirmation to Bucky with a small nod.

The team had been celebrating finally finishing a mission which had taken weeks of everybody’s time. Someone had suggested playing some party games, resulting in Natasha breaking out some of her own stash of alcohol – one of the major contributors to your hangover, as you recall – while most of the team engaged in games like Never Have I Ever and Truth or Dare, the latter of which led to the lap dance that Tony was taunting Steve about, and also what prompted you to dance on top of a table with Wanda, for the entirety of the song ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’.

“Yeah, well, you were feelin’ pretty ill after your, ah, dance-off with Wanda.” Is that a hint of pink on _his_ cheeks, now? Maybe your dancing was raunchier than you remember. Given the song choice and how much alcohol you had consumed by that point, it wouldn’t surprise you. “So was Wanda, but Vision was gonna look after her when she went to bed. I didn’t feel right leavin’ you on your own in that state, so I was gonna put you in my bed and then I’d sleep on my couch. But you, ah, were very adamant that you weren’t gonna kick me outta my own bed, and then you kinda clung to my arm so I figured there was no harm in us jus’ sharin’ the bed.”

You blink a couple of times, feeling warmth stirring in your chest at the thought of Bucky wanting to take care of you while you’re drunk. And also a hint of mortification at the fact that he thought he needed to. “Oh, wow, um… thank you? I mean, I’m still really sorry for intruding on you like that, but thanks for making sure I didn’t, like, choke on my own vomit in my sleep or something.”

Bucky smiles again, ducking his head a bit, lowering his gaze to your hands resting next to each other. He softly runs his finger along your own, and if fingers could get goosebumps, you swear yours would. “It wasn’t an intrusion. Not how I imagined you’d be in my bed, but I didn’t mind, really.”

You nod slowly, regretfully breaking the contact between your fingers to lift the mug to your lips. “Yeah, well, if you’re sure—wait a sec, not how you _imagined_ it?” His eyes widen slightly as his words register in your brain. A quiet giggle spills from your lips, now curved into a playful, if shy, smile. “Do you regularly imagine me in your bed?”

Bucky just tilts his head and looks at you, biting his lower lip for a moment – and that gesture fills your head with all sorts of inappropriate thoughts – before tapping his metal finger against your mug with a soft _clink_.

“Drink your coffee before it goes cold,” is all he says before he pushes himself away from the counter and walks over to fall down onto the sofa next to Steve. Pressing your lips together in a line to stave off the wide smile threatening to overtake your expression, you spin around on your stool so your back is to the rest of the room, drinking the coffee that Bucky had made for you.

It isn’t until a few minutes later, once Steve and Bucky have left the room to go to the gym – Steve hands you your phone before they go, with a brief explanation that you had left it on the table last night and he charged it for you, bless him – and Tony has wandered off to go fiddle with some toy of his in his workshop, that you realise you forgot to ask Bucky why you were only wearing your underwear and, presumably, his t-shirt, when you woke up earlier. But, still feeling the lingering mortification towards your less-inhibited drunken self, who apparently clung to the poor man like a koala which resulted in the two of you sleeping in the same bed and being drunk enough that he felt you needed a guardian so you didn’t do anything stupid, you decide to just ask him later.

* * *

Later, it turns out, doesn’t happen for several days. Later that afternoon, Bucky had been called out on a mission with Steve, Natasha, and Sam. When they return, it is the early hours of the morning. And you only know this because you’re sitting in the kitchen again, this time with a mug of hot chocolate, supporting your head in your hand and leaning almost flat against the countertop. Natasha and Sam simply greet you tiredly before walking away to their respective sleeping quarters. Steve and Bucky are a few steps behind, engaging in a quiet conversation before they both notice you sitting there.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice rings with curiosity. Bucky merely frowns at you. “What’re you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep, figured hot chocolate might help,” you wiggle your half-empty mug as proof. “Mission go okay? Any injuries?”

“Nothing… major,” Steve confirms, though he casts a glance at Bucky, who scowls and shakes his head at him. “But otherwise, yeah, we got it done.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Anyway, I’m gonna head to bed. Don’t stay up too late, guys.”

“Night, Stevie,” you speak through a yawn, which Steve smiles at, patting your shoulder as he walks by, leaving you alone with Bucky. Who, as you fix your gaze on him, is resting his arms against the counter on the opposite side, head lowered.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” He mumbles, with a heavy sigh. Biting your lip, you subconsciously scan him for injuries, despite what Steve said. He’s still dressed in his black mission gear, but the stain surrounding a rip near his right shoulder leaves you feeling suspicious.

“You look exhausted,” you comment on his appearance instead of indulging his question. “And Steve really wasn’t that subtle, so, what happened to you?”

Bucky sighs again, tinged with frustration this time. “I’m fine, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Lifting his head, his eyes lock with yours. Exhaustion is clear on his face, like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since that night before he left. Then he shakes his head and lowers it again, breaking away from your gaze. “Got in the way of a bullet, is all. Nothin’ too bad.”

You gape at him, and then, abandoning your drink, you slide off the stool to walk around the counter. “’Nothing too bad’? Bucky, that sounds remarkably like getting shot, and you say that’s not bad?” Wrapping your hand around his bicep – your fingers don’t even make it halfway – you tug him away from the counter to face you. He’s reluctant, but he allows you to turn his body, and you get a closer look. Your free hand lifts up of its own accord and your fingers ghost around the tear in his clothing. “You should get this looked at.”

“I can deal with it myself,” he grumbles. Feeling his eyes on you, you look up, and you realise that you’re standing much closer to him than you thought you were. Attempting to force down the heat creeping up your neck, you clear your throat quietly and fix him with an exasperated look.

“_Or_, you can sit and let somebody else fix you up instead.” Sliding your hand down his arm, your fingers find his and squeeze gently, accompanying the gesture with a raised eyebrow. “Like me, for example. Call it a thank you for when you looked after me a few days ago.”

After several moments of his eyes flicking between yours – and, at one point, his focus seems to drop to your lips, but it was barely a flash, and you’re not sure if you had just imagined it or not – Bucky seems to resign himself to your treatment, and nods once with another sigh, though he can’t quite disguise the fond smile tugging at his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You don’t drop his hand, and he makes no effort to pull away from you, so you pull him gently along with you to his bedroom, marching him directly into his attached bathroom.

“Sit there,” you direct him towards the closed lid of the toilet, and he does as directed. “Shirt off.”

“There are easier ways to get my clothes off without all o’ this fuss, y’know,” he murmurs through a grin, unbuckling his gear until he is naked from the waist up. You can’t fight away the blush this time – disregarding his comments, the man _is_ built like a god – so you simply turn your back to him while you busy yourself with his first aid kit.

“I—shut up, you menace,” you mumble, and he huffs a laugh behind you. “Wait, did you want to have a shower first?”

“Why, you wanna join me?”

“You fucking—“ Your hands rest on your hips as you take a breath, and he laughs quietly again behind you. “Be serious for a sec, would you?”

“Oh, I am.” You glare at him over your shoulder, and he lifts his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Okay, okay. No, I'll jus' have one in the mornin’. Too tired right now.”

Turning back around, you go about cleaning his wound first before treating it. If it stings, he doesn’t let on.

“So,” you begin, glancing at his face briefly. “Who did you take the bullet for?”

“Hm?” His eyes focus back on you from where he had been staring into the distance over your shoulder, and you roll yours at him.

“You’re not the type of guy who just _gets in the way_ of a bullet. And it wouldn’t be too life-threatening for Steve either, so, was it Sam or Nat?”

He is silent for a few seconds before answering. “Nat. I didn’t see the guy quick enough to stop him from shootin’, so I jus’ stepped in front of her. Went through me and grazed her anyway, but better than the alternative.”

Your fingers pause, your head being filled with unwanted images of Bucky getting shot, before slowly resuming the motions. “That’s…” You clear your throat quietly. “You shouldn’t do that, Bucky.”

“What, should I have jus’ let the guy shoot her?”

“I—No, no of course not, that’s not what I meant, I—“ Cutting yourself off with a sigh, you finish up your handiwork by sticking down a bandage, then gesture for him to turn so you can get a look at the exit wound. He does so, spinning around so he is sitting backwards on the toilet lid, his back to you. You start the process again. “I just—I don’t like to think of you letting yourself get hurt, that’s all.”

“That’s kinda an occupational hazard with us, though, isn’t it?” He shrugs lightly, and you hum in disapproval, pressing a hand down on his shoulder to keep him still.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He stays quiet after that, and you finish patching him up within a few minutes. “There, all done. Now you won’t bleed all over your sheets.” Your voice comes out a bit colder than you meant it to, so you busy yourself with packing away the first aid kit and returning it to the cupboard under the sink, and you don’t realise Bucky has moved until you straighten up again and see him standing close behind you through the mirror.

Curling your fingers over the edge of the counter, you silently meet his gaze through the mirror. His eyes are more intense than you were expecting, and after a few more moments, he gently turns you to face him. You slump back against the counter, suddenly feeling your own exhaustion returning with a vengeance. Bucky notices.

“Thank you for helpin’ me,” he murmurs.

“Thank you for letting me,” you reply just as softly, because you both know that it will be just another scar in a week. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life that he’s had to treat his own wounds, he would have managed just fine on his own.

“Let’s get you to bed, hm?” Wrapping his metal arm around your waist, he leads you out of the bathroom and back into his bedroom. “Wanna stay with me again tonight?”

There’s no reason for him to offer, and there’s no reason for you to agree. _No_, your head argues.

“Yeah,” your mouth says instead, and you nod.

He leaves your side to go to his dresser, and pulls out some clothes for him, and a t-shirt for you. While he gets ready for bed back in the bathroom, you strip down and fold your clothes on top of his dresser, leaving you in just your underwear and another one of his shirts, which covers you to your thighs. Pulling the covers on his bed back, you crawl beneath them and wait for Bucky to join you. It only takes another minute, and then all of the lights are turned off, save for the lamp on his bedside table, as he slips under the covers.

He’s on his back with his head turned in your direction, while you’re on your side facing him. For a moment, you just look at each other. And, maybe it’s the lighting, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re completely sober and aware, or maybe it’s just one of those things that happen with conversations that take place after 2am – whatever the reason, this feels a lot more intimate than when you woke up in Bucky’s bed before.

“Hey.”

He smiles, a small thing. “Hi.”

“You never told me why I was wearing your shirt last time.”

His small smile morphs into an amused grin. “You spilt your drink all over yourself so I had to give you somethin’. An’ I threw ‘em in your laundry hamper for you, in case you’re wonderin’.”

“I’ll give your other shirt back to you tomorrow.” Then, after a small pause, you add: “If you want it back, that is.”

“Nah,” he murmurs. “You look pretty good in my clothes. You keep it.”

Warmth stains your cheeks at the compliment, and you can’t help but shoot him a playful smile. “Yeah? Careful, Barnes, people might think I’m your girl if I go waltzing around in your clothes.”

“Would that be so terrible?” He challenges gently, his warm fingers finding yours under the sheets.

And then you get an idea, and while it’s potentially risky, his teasing gives you enough confidence to do it. So, after letting the silence following his question ring out for just a _bit_ too long, you push yourself up and shift closer to him, and even in the dim light you can see his eyes widen as you lean over him. Your actions bring your face closer to his, but his gaze is locked with yours, so he doesn’t pay attention to what your arm is doing until you reach the switch on his lamp and flick it off.

The room falls into complete darkness, and this close, you hear his breath catch in his throat.

“Stop flirting and go to sleep, Sergeant,” you whisper to him teasingly, before pulling away from him entirely and huddling back under the covers again, rolling over so your back is to him, because there’s no way in hell that you will be able to fall asleep knowing that his face is directly in front of you, not after that stunt.

For a moment he doesn’t make a sound, then he breathes another laugh, and you can tell that he’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“You are… somethin’ else, y’know that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and feel his eyes on the back of your head even through the pitch black.

“_Goodnight_, Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your face into the pillow to smother the smile threatening to overtake your face – and oh, that’s probably why this bed is so alluring, because it smells like _him_. Jesus Christ, this is going to be a problem.

“Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Unfortunately, they weren’t.

You’re not sure exactly what wakes you up later. For several long moments, you’re still not completely awake, and as the fog of sleep slowly fades away, all you’re left with is confusion as your tired brain struggles to make any connections.

A voice in the back of your head is repeating something over and over, and it takes you a little while longer to realise that the voice isn’t in your head.

“…ake up, sweetheart, c’mon, you gotta wake up,” the familiar voice is urging you, gentle but insistent. “You’re okay, look at me, it’s okay. C’mon, baby.”

Your eyes open as you pull in a surprised breath, and you flinch into consciousness as you finally recognise the words being spoken to you. Blinking in alarm, your vision clears to find Bucky hovering over you, his eyes crinkled with concern.

“’M awake!” You gasp, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bed as you push yourself up with your hands. Bucky leans back with you as you sit up, and in the pale dawn light filtering into the room, you can see that his face is ashen.

Contrasting temperatures on your cheeks clues you in to the fact that he is currently holding your face between his hands, and as your chest heaves for breath – because for some reason you feel like you have just run a marathon – your eyes find his, darting between them anxiously. What the fuck is going on?

“You—“ His voice seems to get stuck in his throat, and after clearing it, he tries again. “You were tossin' and cryin' in your sleep.”

“I—“ That’s when you notice that your eyes sting and your face is wet. With a soft groan, you sit up fully so you can dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, rubbing them tiredly. Bucky’s hands lower from your cheeks to hold you around the back of your neck, thumbs resting on your jaw. When you’re satisfied with rubbing the sting of tears away, you drop your hands, only to wrap them loosely around his wrists. Gentle pressure from him coaxes you to lift your head and meet his gaze again. “I’m sorry,” you finally manage to whisper. “I don’t—“

“It’s okay,” he shushes you gently, and then smiles weakly. “Usually I’m the one who can’t sleep ‘cause of nightmares. You tryin’ to take my place?”

You know what he’s trying to do, but you don’t mind because it works; you huff a soft laugh, closing your eyes as his fingers slip into your hair at the back of your head. “Yeah,” you agree, and his warm thumb ghosts over your bottom lip. Your heart is steadily calming down after trying to escape from your chest from being startled awake, but this comforting gesture makes it speed up again. “Maybe.”

“Do you wanna talk ‘bout it?” You can still feel his eyes flitting across your face in concern.

“I—“ Flashes of your dream return to you. Bucky, standing in front of you, being shot multiple times as he shields you with his body from an unknown adversary. Bucky, bleeding out in your arms. Bucky’s gentle blue eyes turning dull and lifeless. You can’t recall ever having a dream like that before, and the memory of it makes you shudder, even as the images fade and distort as you push them to the back of your head. “No, I’m—I’m okay.”

“Wanna try and get some more sleep? It’s still pretty early.”

Taking a deep breath, you open your eyes to look at him. He still seems worried, but thankfully he isn’t pale with dread like he was only a few minutes ago. You shrug your shoulders lightly in response to his question; while you can still feel the exhaustion making your bones ache, you know that your mind is too awake now to consider it. “I don’t think I can.”

He ponders this for a moment, then smiles gently at you. “How ‘bout some hot chocolate, then?” And yeah, that sounds heavenly right about now, and you tell him as much. His hands pull back and he catches your left in his right, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he shifts around to stand up off the bed. “Be back in a sec.”

But his lifeless eyes flash in your head again, and your throat constricts with sudden panic, prompting you to lean over and grab onto his wrist again before he can disappear. “I—Wait, Bucky—“

He turns to look at you, surprised, before understanding crosses his face and he places his metal hand on the bed to lean towards you, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft kiss. “I’ll only be gone for a few minutes. I’ll be back, I promise.” Then, after drawing back so you can see his face, he shoots you one of those playful, crooked smiles. “Don’t go anywhere.” With another squeeze of your hand, he slips out of the room, the door barely making a sound.

Crossing your legs beneath you, your hands fall into your lap, and you fiddle with your fingers as your mind plays over the last few minutes while he’s away. It’s a nice distraction, because you get to replay the sensation of his lips pressing to your skin, with the faint tickle of his short beard. In all the time that you’ve known each other, you don’t think he’s ever kissed you before. Sure, it was just on the forehead, but still.

You can actually feel butterflies, for god’s sake.

Something about your conversation niggles at your mind, and it’s not until you actually remember what he was saying to you when he woke you up that you realise what it is. Did he just call you _baby_—?

“Here we are.” Bucky’s voice startles you back into the present, and you can’t bite back the sigh of relief as he shuts the door quietly with his foot, both hands being occupied with mugs. Handing you one when he’s close enough, he slides into the bed again, resting his back against the headboard and stretching his legs out, covers tucked up to his waist. After adjusting the pillows behind you, you do the same, though you draw your legs close to your chest, clutching your mug of hot chocolate in both hands.

Thanking him quietly, you take a small sip of the drink and sigh in contentment as the taste flows over your tongue. He managed to get the temperature just right. He does the same beside you, and you sit in silence for a few minutes.

It’s Bucky who breaks the silence. “You seem lost in thought. What’re you thinkin’ about?”

You hide your smile behind your mug. “Just… things.” Well, you can’t exactly tell him that you’re marvelling over how fucking sweet he’s been since you woke up. It’s honestly dizzying.

“You’re thinkin’ about me, aren’t you?” He teases, nudging you with his elbow.

“We gotta knock your ego down a few pegs,” is your muttered response, shaking your head in amusement. Bucky chuckles, staring down into his hot chocolate before glancing back at you through his lashes. _God_, this man.

“I’m not hearin’ a no?”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you tilt your head, considering it, and decide to quote his words from last night. “Would that be so terrible?”

Your answer seems to please him, if the grin he’s sporting means anything. “Nah, that wouldn’t be terrible at all. I’m thinkin’ about you, too.” And _damn him_, you think, lowering your gaze to where your fingers are tapping against your mug.

“All this flirting is gonna get you in trouble one day, Barnes.”

“You gonna punish me?”

“Oh my _god_.” With a sheepish laugh, you bring one hand up to cover your face, which has surely turned an interesting shade of pink by now.

Bucky snickers, and then he plucks your mug out of your hand, so you use the opportunity to cover your face with both hands to avoid looking at him.

“Hey, you,” the bed shifts and then he’s tucking your hair behind your ear, and you honestly think you’re going to melt, “am I makin’ you uncomfortable?”

“Not the word I’d use,” you admit, still adamantly keeping your face hidden.

“No?” He hums in contemplation. “Then why’re you hidin’?”

“You know what you’re doing.” Nope, not looking at him.

“Oh yeah? What am I doin’?”

“Being a _menace_,” you hiss, and his laughter spills brightly into the quiet of the room, but he attempts to muffle it by pressing his face into your shoulder. Yep, you’re going to be a puddle of goo by the time this is over, because that is just _adorable_ and _oh my god_ you hate this man.

“’M sorry,” he actually giggles, holy shit. “I jus’ love seein’ you blush.”

“You suck,” you whine, trying not to giggle along with him yourself.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, amusement thick in his voice. “So, c’mon, you gonna look at me again today?” You shake your head, humming a ‘no’, and you can hear the smirk in his next words. “You sure? I have my ways.” You repeat your answer, curling tighter in on yourself. “Well, if you insist…”

And then his fingers are digging into your sides, attacking your weak spots, and the giggles bubble up out of your throat.

“No—Stop—!” You try to roll away from him but he drags you back, and straddles your thighs so you can’t kick him away. He’s just laughing as he tickles you mercilessly, and it doesn’t take long for you to give in and start trying to fight him off with your hands, unable to escape his wandering fingers. His eyes are shining with mirth as you protest and plead through fits of giggles, trying to slap his hands away. But he just catches your wrists and pins them down above your head, smirking with triumph down at you.

“There she is,” he coos through his laughter, and you roll your eyes in exasperation, still feeling pretty red-faced.

“I hate you.” Glaring up at him in mock anger, you attempt to wriggle your wrists free, but there is no give at all in his grip. And you attempt to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine at _that_ thought.

“You love me,” he disagrees, looking _so_ pleased with himself, the bastard.

“Nope. Hate you.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Fuck you, I’m an _excellent_ liar.”

“Oh yeah? Then why are you so _obviously_ lyin’ right now?”

“Maybe _somebody_ is distracting me, asshole.”

That… may have been the wrong thing to say? The wickedly sinful gleam that appears in his eyes makes you pause. “Is that so?”

God, that look in his eyes could instantly turn a poor, unsuspecting girl’s legs to jelly. Good thing you’re already on your back and Jesus _Christ_, that is not something you needed to remind yourself of right now. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with him like this, so you turn your head to the side with enough force that your hair flops over your face as a shield. “Stop—Stop looking at me like that.”

“Aw, are you hidin’ from me again? Now, that jus' won’t do.” Shifting your hands close together, he changes his grip so that he’s got both wrists restrained in his metal hand, meanwhile his free hand comes down to brush your hair off of your face again. In retaliation, you merely squeeze your eyes shut, coaxing a soft laugh out of him. “C’mon, show me those eyes.”

When his fingertips ghost across your ribcage again in what can only be described as a threat, you groan quietly and peer up at him again. “Happy?”

“With you? Always.”

You groan again, and you’re beginning to get concerned that this blush is never going to fade away. “You—You’re doing it again.”

He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head in fond amusement. “What am I doin’ now?”

“_Menace_,” you murmur, shaking your head and trying to force the heat down by sheer will. It doesn’t work. “Was this your strategy back in the day? Tease and flirt with girls and say stuff like that until they melt at your feet?”

With a crooked grin, he leans a bit closer to you, and hopefully he doesn’t hear your breath catch. “Am I makin’ you nervous?”

Your eyes dart away from his to focus on a point over his shoulder again, and you gulp. “Are you trying to?”

“Maybe I jus’ like seein’ you squirm for me.” And _oh my god_, this man is relentless.

“One of these days, I’m gonna give you a taste of your own medicine,” you glance back at him and he grins.

“Oh, I hope so.” And then finally, _finally_, he decides that he’s tortured you enough, and rolls off of you to the side, chuckling to himself.

As you lay there and stare up at the ceiling, still feeling like you need to catch your breath from all of his teasing remarks, there is one thought that rattles around your head the most: _what the fuck just happened?_

* * *

The flirting doesn’t really stop, after that day.

You and Bucky have always engaged in light teasing between the two of you, since you became close friends. But now, it’s like you've unknowingly flipped a switch and brought out a whole new side to him. If he isn’t ‘accidentally’ brushing up against you, then he’s sending that smile your way which should honestly be fucking illegal at this point, or he’s making flirty remarks.

Even the team notices. Bucky usually doesn’t draw attention to himself, but whenever anyone does notice, they’ll smirk to themselves or tease you about it later, which you just shake off. One of the most confusing interactions was when Steve told you that he’s happy for you both, and that you’re good for each other. It wasn’t confusing in that you didn’t understand, because you understood perfectly well what he was getting at. But it did succeed in making you feel even more conflicted about what exactly is going on between you and Bucky – is he flirting with you because it amuses him, or… is there something there? You’ve long since accepted that you couldn’t act on your feelings, which you could cope with, because the last thing he needs while he’s still rediscovering himself is to get involved in something that could potentially mess up a perfectly fine friendship.

Doesn’t make it easy to ignore his goddamn allure, though.

He kisses you now, too. Not in the way you’d like him to – in the way you’d really, _really_, like him to – but soft, fluttering kisses against your cheeks or your head or your hands. He saves those for when nobody is around, probably so he can savour your reaction all to himself. And every time he follows it up with a smile so soft and sweet that you just want to dissolve. He’s always been a tactile creature with you but this is something else, now. And it definitely doesn’t help the constant conflict raging between your head and heart. If anything, it makes it worse.

It’s like a dance, or a game, between you now. And it goes on, building to some unknown destination, for more than three weeks. When it reaches a tipping point, it happens very unexpectedly.

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Barnes,” you hiss angrily, pressing the towel against the wound in his shoulder, the once white material stained red. The man himself is slumped against the wall, head tipped back and eyes closed.

“Better me than you, darlin’,” he murmurs in a tired voice, and you scoff at his reply.

“First a bullet, now a knife – tell me, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

Another mission had cropped up a few days ago. It was supposed to be fairly standard, as mission objectives go; infiltrate the building, subdue the threat, and then get the hell out. The establishment itself was a nightclub, and your team knew that there would be an ex-HYDRA official spending his evening there. Your job was to _persuade_ him to come back with you and face the consequences of his crimes, including but not limited to human trafficking and experimentation. It was just one man, and it was determined that only two agents were necessary to complete the mission. One, you, to do most of the dirty work, and the other, Bucky, as back-up if needed.

What you didn’t realise at the time was that the nightclub in question also happened to be a front for the aforementioned human trafficking crimes. Whoever missed that little nugget of information in your intelligence team was probably going to get a fucking earful from their boss. This knowledge came into light after you had subdued the man behind the alley, only to then be surrounded by half a dozen thugs, who apparently weren’t very pleased with you conducting your business on their property.

Thankfully, Bucky had noticed suspicious activity and had immediately come to your aid just in time, and between the two of you, you managed to eliminate them in short order – but in the process, Bucky had taken a knife in his right shoulder, in almost the exact same place he had gotten shot just a few weeks ago. Given his enhanced nature and the location of the injury it wouldn’t be fatal, but it was still bleeding heavily, and it would still hurt.

This is how you find yourselves behind an abandoned warehouse a few blocks away, the two of you having dragged the unconscious HYDRA operative between you and dumping him on the ground where you could keep an eye on him, while you attempt to staunch the flow of blood oozing out of Bucky’s shoulder. You had already contacted the extraction team – and sent a request for clean-up behind the nightclub – so now you just need to wait for them to come and collect you, Bucky, and the cargo.

“You know it’s gonna be fine in a few days,” Bucky reminds you, peeling his eyes open and arching an eyebrow. You just shake your head, glaring at him.

“I don’t fucking care, why the fuck did you do that?” Because you’re not stupid, and you know _exactly_ how he got hurt. During the scuffle, Bucky had knocked one of the men away, but apparently he still had some energy left in him, so he had decided to bring knives into play once he realised that he couldn’t win with his fists alone. You had turned just as he threw it, and before you could even think about dodging or even just flinching, Bucky was suddenly there in front of you, intercepting the attack, letting out a pained grunt as the knife lodged into his shoulder. Then, the _moron_ had immediately pulled it out and sent it flying straight back at him, hitting the guy perfectly between the eyes and he dropped like a stone.

“What did you expect me to do, jus’ let it happen?”

“You—You could’ve pushed me out of the way, or _anything else_ that didn’t involve doing _that_!”

Metal fingers brush gently against your hip, and you grit your teeth, ignoring his attempts to soothe you. “C’mon, I—I saw that knife, and I reacted. I ain’t gonna apologise for that.”

“I’m not looking for a _fucking_ apology, Bucky!”

“You seem real mad about this.”

You laugh humourlessly. “Yeah, sure. Did you expect me to be happy about it?”

“No, I—I guess I jus' expected you to understand.” His eyes soften as he watches you carefully, and you have to lower your gaze, choosing instead to focus your glare on the bloody towel under your hands.

“Yeah? What, exactly, do I need to understand?”

“That I’d do anythin' to protect you. I don’t care what happens to me if it keeps you alive.”

You freeze in place, and then slowly shake your head, feeling the need to clear your throat before you speak. The fight drains out of you, and you almost slump into him.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me,” your voice comes out as a whisper.

“You don’t need to,” he says, ducking his head to catch your eyes. His are burning. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you know the lengths I’d go to for you. This?” He shrugs his right shoulder with a small wince. “This is nothin’.”

All you can do is gape at him, but fortunately, you don’t have to come up with a response just yet, because that is when the extraction team arrives to carry you and your cargo back to the facility. You and Bucky settle into your seats, and you ignore him when he waves away a concerned agent, stating that he’ll deal with his injury when you’re home.

You don’t say anything to him on the journey back, nor do you say anything when you arrive, choosing instead to hop out of the van and walk directly to your bedroom. You can’t bring yourself to speak, or even look at him. His words just rattle around in your head: _I’d do anything to protect you._ What are you supposed to say to that? _I don’t care what happens to me._ He all but admitted that he’d die for you, so what could you possibly say to explain to him how much that fucking terrifies you?

When you reach your room, you decide to attempt to wash your sudden stress away with an unnecessarily long shower, with only limited success. It’s late, so you don’t bother getting dressed, and instead just pull on some pyjama shorts and, after a moment of deliberation, Bucky’s shirt. Letting your damp hair hang loose, not finding the energy to do anything with it, you crawl under your covers.

Given the time, you don’t expect anyone to come knocking. So when there’s a gentle tap on your door only a few minutes later, and you force yourself out of bed only to find Bucky standing in the hallway, it stuns you for a moment – but only a moment.

“Hey,” he greets you quietly, and you reach out and tug him into your room, pushing the door shut behind him. Then you pull him close and wrap your arms around his torso in a tight embrace, tucking your face into his neck. He doesn’t hesitate, and his own arms wrap themselves around your back, holding you firmly against him, resting his cheek against your hair.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh into his neck, after a minute passes of you and Bucky just holding each other, your fingers gripping the back of his soft shirt to keep him with you.

“Be kind, hopefully,” and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your head.

“Bucky, I—“ And you sigh again, reluctantly drawing back from him. He doesn’t let you go far, keeping you close with his hands shifting to hold you by the waist, whereas your own end up hovering awkwardly in the small space between you, fists clenching restlessly with the need to hold onto him again. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with him when he’s looking at you this intensely, so you lower your eyes to his newly-bandaged shoulder, which peeks out from under the sleeveless grey vest he has changed into. “I know it’s not a big deal for you, but—but that doesn’t mean I don’t get worried. And then you go and stay stuff like—like—“

He doesn’t repeat his earlier words, thankfully. “Even if it’s the truth?”

“You can’t _say_ stuff like that. Not to me.” His fingers tighten slightly, curling more around you.

“Why not? I care about you.”

“Do you?” You challenge, lifting your head again to meet his eyes.

“You _know_ I do.”

“Then you should _know_ why I can’t stand to see you get hurt for me.” Was that too specific? You hastily add: “Why I can’t stand to see any of my friends get hurt for me.”

He studies you for a moment, and for a brief second, his gaze lowers – and no, you definitely didn’t imagine it this time. “I think we both know that we’re more than friends.”

You pause, and then dare to ask: “Then, what are we?”

His mouth curves into a smile that sends a shiver down your spine, and he gives a gentle tug on his shirt that you had already forgotten you were wearing, pulling you close against him, and then he gently presses his forehead to yours. “You’re my girl,” he says simply, and he sounds so sure of that, and before you can even consider any type of response his lips slot over yours, and you lose any and all ability to think.

_Holy shit._

Bucky’s lips are warm, inviting, and so gentle. The kiss itself only lasts for a few seconds – it is chaste, but sweet, and when he pulls back a fraction, you can’t help but lean into him again, prompting him to brush another soft kiss against your mouth, before drawing back again, leaving only a few inches between you. Your breaths mingle in the small space.

It takes you several seconds to be able to open your eyes – when did they close? – and when you do, you can read the wariness clearly in the lines of his face, as if he’s preparing for rejection, but his eyes glimmer with unknown promises of _more_.

“Does that answer your question?” He asks, his voice husky with scarcely concealed _longing_, as if he’s been waiting for so fucking long to do that and now that he has it has wrecked him, and looking at you with what you can only describe as a smoulder.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper hoarsely, and he grins with delight and it’s just _sinful_ and then his mouth is bearing down on yours again and _oh_, you think you forget how to breathe.

Warm fingers are delving into your hair, tipping your head back as he angles his head, and his metal arm bands firmly around your waist in an unrelenting grip, pulling you tightly up against him, and you’ve never felt so fucking _safe_ or _wanted_ in your life. This kiss is all heat and desperation, and a whimper climbs out of your throat under his very welcome assault. His mouth is insistent, and he invades your senses so fiercely and thoroughly that you can’t help but cling to him, arms winding around his neck, one hand tangling into his hair with a grip that is probably just shy of being too tight, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Bucky groans softly, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat straight through you, and then his tongue is hot against your lips, licking into your mouth and curling around yours and were it not for his arm supporting you around your waist your knees would have given out. His taste is intoxicating, and it surrounds you entirely. He must have turned you around because seconds later you whimper again when your back presses against your door because _yes,_ this is exactly where you want to be, with him crowding you and not letting you focus on anything but him.

His lips move away from yours and before you can even think about protesting their absence, he is trailing them over your jaw and up to your ear, which he nips gently with his teeth, coaxing a gasp out of you and a throaty chuckle out of him. Then he is moving down your neck, lips and teeth and tongue leaving a burning trail of heat and when he feels your grip on his hair tighten almost painfully, he latches onto that spot like a man on a mission, and you just _know_ that he’s going to leave a bruise behind and you can’t find it in you to care in the slightest, gladly tilting your head to give him room. You would love nothing more than for him to mark you up as his, for him to claim you as _his_. If his pleased hum is any indication, he more than agrees.

“Bucky—“ His name flies out of your mouth in a gasp, breaking into a moan, and then his teeth are tugging gently at your bottom lip before his lips press back against yours, and he silences you once more.

You’re not sure how much time passes before the keen desire that had suddenly gripped the both of you burns through you until it is left simmering pleasantly in your belly, and Bucky’s kiss becomes slow, and languid, like he has all the time in the world to kiss you and he wants to savour every glide of your lips. Your entire body is thrumming with contentment, and you sigh into his mouth when his hands cup your face so tenderly, as if you were a fragile thing that would shatter under a harsher touch.

He starts to withdraw from you, coaxing a small whine out of your throat because _no_, you definitely do _not_ agree with that, and then he shudders and leans back in, brushing his lips against yours again in a soft kiss, and then another, then two, three, four more. Eventually he has to almost wrench his mouth away from you, choosing instead to drop his head into the crook of your neck as his hands wind around your waist again.

Your chests are both heaving as if you’ve just finished running a marathon. Your hands dance restlessly over him before your right slips around him and curls around his shoulder, while your left flutters over his hair, and you’re not sure if the gesture is meant to comfort you or him.

A full minute passes of both of you just breathing and holding each other, before his shoulders shift under your hands and he lifts his head, metal hand drifting up your body to curl around your jaw. His eyes are so _warm_.

“I hope that erases any doubt about what we are,” he murmurs, ghosting his thumb over your lip, and the cool metal is soothing against your surely flushed and swollen lips, if they look anything like his. Yours are tingling with the lingering burn of his beard, but it doesn’t stop you from pressing a small kiss to the pad of his thumb.

“I’m your girl,” you echo his words from earlier, nuzzling your face into his palm.

He smiles. “And I’m your guy.”

“Can you—“ Your voice breaks slightly, and you have to clear your throat, and his eyes shine just a bit brighter. “Can you stay with me tonight? I—I sleep better when you’re with me.”

“Oh, baby,” and he dips his head down, pressing his forehead to yours gently like before, “I don’t plan on lettin’ you go for a long time.”

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, Sergeant,” you tease him, and he just grins at you.

“Trust me, I’ll be keepin’ this one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there are any tags you think I should add, or if I've made any errors with pronouns/tense/grammar etc, or if you just want to share your opinion. Thanks!  
(Minor fixes have been made since time of posting.)


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